Written beneath a Portrait Of Mr. G. F. MANDLEY, of Manchester, Taken during his representation of the character of Julian On the Anniversary of the Prince of Wales's Birthday, So stands he whilst depicting scenes gone by,— But vain the pencil's mimic power to trace But cannot the mind's varied workings show. As vain its efforts to display the force Of that wild tale, whose thrilling interest draws From the 'wrapt crowd, like thunder in its course, The long, loud, deep, encouraging applause. Well might the wise discriminating few, That hero was-nay there he is!-St. Pierre." Written in an Ancient Churchyard, (ASSELYNN, NEAR BOYLE,) County Roscommon. Days were, when beings now in dust, With fairer prospects blest than ever we. Here, with a grave her narrow bed, And with life's bright streams bought Her liberty-long tarnished, sullied prize. All-powerful death! relentless king! That sweeps off all-the beggar, lord,— Distinctions thou aside dost fling, Nor to the monarch wilt afford One moment, heedless of his gold, He is thy own, thy own, And as the peasant's heart, his heart is cold. Time was we were in childhood's bloom, And life's young day-beam was all bright; Time is 'tis overspread with gloom, And like a meteor of the night Joy shines; but time will come, and where Our after-home shall be Through all Eternity, Time is must tell if we'll be happy there. Song of a Sca-born Sailor. List, ye landsmen, unto me.-Old Song. Loudly roar, thou dark-blue Ocean! Not on earth Had I my birth, But on the wide Atlantic's breast; On thee to rove, Nought on earth affords me rest? Dark-blue Ocean, what shall bound thee, First-create of Deity? Below thee, what? Above, around thee? Sky and sky's serenity. The bright moon sleeps Within thy deeps, And the stars hide beneath thy billow; Phoebus laves In thy green waves, And weary seeks in thee his pillow. What extent dost thou not cover, Round the earth from pole to line? Who is't that would not be a rover? Sea and a sailor's life be mine! Oh, how sweet The morn to greet Within my ærial hammock sleeping, Or thro' the bright And moon-lit night Upon the deck my watch-guard keeping. Thrice I crossed the wide Equator,- While mad waves dashed, Upon the thundering Baltic's shore ; Viewed the stones And snow-white bones That in its unsearched womb it bore. |